


You shoot me down, but I won't fall.

by cami_case



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, so cheesy it's sickening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:08:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cami_case/pseuds/cami_case
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which R is in love with all the Apollos, until <i>Apollo<i> comes along.</i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	You shoot me down, but I won't fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from David Guetta's Titanium.
> 
> A hundred kiss to Marty for lessening all my mistakes (I love you) (so much).

R always had a graceful way with a pencil, like the art was slowly falling in love with his strokes as his strokes were falling in love with the art. Which is why, once in college, he chose to major in ancient literature. There was no way he would lock himself twenty hours a day, everyday, to do something that usually would give him pleasure, only to be then heard that it wasn’t enough, or that it was too much. So, of course, if you wanted to find him, you’d have to find the trail of charcoal in the streets of Paris. Or beer. Or coffee. Or all of them. Actually, if you wanted to find him today – or anyday for the past six months, really - then you would have to wander in the gardens of Versailles. And then you would have to look for every depiction of Apollo, because if the statues of those gardens could talk, they’d tell you the tale of that boy, who tried to draw every Apollo, again and again, until the curve of his lips, and the line of his curls were perfect. And they were perfect, but they didn’t make him feel like he painted the ultimate missing piece of himself, his _obverse_. But you can’t miss something you never had, nor have, and even less will, you can’t miss something that can’t even be named in your mind. You can’t miss colors. You can’t miss ice, and fire at the same time. Life is like a tragedy, and the drama catches up to you, eventually. Between the lines, between the wrinkles, in the amber of your iris and in the ink of your drawing. So he just goes on, drawing every piece until his hand hurts, until he had memorized every notch in the stone, until he can look at it without feeling blinded. 

Today, R is sitting against a bosquet, his sketchbook on his knees. He’s humming to himself – _“and there’s nothing to be sad to those who have already left…”_ –, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and wind softly blowing through his hair. He looks up, draws, rubs out, takes a sip of his beer, draws, looks up, draws again, rubs it all out, and starts over again. He’s not so much of a loner, he enjoys company, especially with good alcohol. He just feels like he can’t talk anymore, even if he can’t recall what ‘before’ his ‘anymore’ echoes to. And even if cynicism is to him what the leaf is to nudity, silence became his self-defense. As if his cynicism can’t match its true nemesis, and like it’s worth something… more. So he takes a sip of his beer, looks up, draws, looks up, rubs out, draws, looks up and then -

And then, _He_ ’s standing there, obstructing the sun and replacing the light. He’s standing there, like a fucking greek god, he doesn’t even notice R, he looks at the statue, an eyebrow raised. It’s the first time R sees the man, and yet he feels like he could pinpoint every shade in his words and every breath in his silence. He stands there, like a fucking greek god. Like he owns the world by one look, like the world is submitting itself to the fire in his eyes. He is standing there, blonde curls sticking to his forehead. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, his jacket hanging over his arm, and his red bowtie hanging undone; he is looking at the statue, his thoughts furrowing his brow. All in all, the boy looks like he just randomly wandered in the royal gardens and yet, R wonders how he can look like he belongs so much here. His lips are slightly parted as his look is focused in front of him. R shudders, and he wonders how the world of the ones who aren’t him keeps spinning, and how they keep living without anyone realizing the extent of what he is feeling, in that second. And He is still standing there, like a fucking greek god. And R’s gaze is still flickering between Him and the statue. And it is still the same statue, but the flame that used to take R’s breath away seems like it shifted to His eyes, “like a sky before sunset” his inner voice says, as if the words belong to someone he once knew. 

R tightens his grip around his sketchbook; he is feeling like he had too much to drink for the first time in his life, but the taste of coffee and beer has given way to a cheap wine, with the bitter aftertaste of dust in his mouth. He can feel his cheek, stained with paint, but the smell of the oil painting is turning into a bittersweet metal. With a few blinks, before he can realize, tears are forming in his eyes, and he can’t even bring himself to wipe them away as the recall of a hazel aura surrounded by smoke is smothering his mind. And the blur of drunkenness is there, and the tearing sound of the guns is there, and the soundless yet striking realization that he was the only one left is there. The weight of a few stumbling steps in a wine shop. And then, the gentle smile and the golden curls. The permission.  
He wants to scream at the man. Yell at him, tell him that he knows him, that he knows every beat of his heart that echoes every beat of the drums. That he knows every look between those perfect lashes, every gleam of his liquid eyes that can make insignificant the roaring flame itself.  
That’s when R realizes that he stood up, and made a few steps toward him. Before his brain can catch up with his anguishing hand, he gently grabs his sleeve, making the other man turn around. 

And the world spins again. And none of them says anything. Dionysus, who could never find the right words, and Apollo, who could find every word except the ones he needed.

“Have you ever been to the Prado ? The Museum, in Madrid I mean,” whispers Grantaire, in the crook of the other man’s neck. He smells like pepper, and old books.

“Why ?” 

“There’s a statue there. It’s breathtaking. Orestes and –“ 

“Pylades.” 

“You know ?”

“I know.” 

“You saw ?” 

Enjolras smiled. “I _know_.”

The world shudders.


End file.
